The Girl Who Wouldn't Die Part 29

'George was right. And her Firestarter is top dog now.' He splashed his face with water and spoke to his own reflection in the water-splattered mirror. 'But c.o.c.ky, using his real surname. Too c.o.c.ky. Got you, you little s.c.r.o.t.u.m!'

'Boss?' Elvis said, interrupting van den Bergen's monologue. 'Are you coming?'

'Yes.' Van den Bergen straightened up and bent sideways to loosen his locked hip. 'We need Mr Saddiq's home address.'

It was almost one in the morning now but van den Bergen was buoyed by adrenalin. He felt alive. The net was coming down on this monster's head. He knew it.

The sight of George's neighbour, Katja, instantly recognisable as a prost.i.tute with her big red hair, heavy night-time makeup and her tight fitting denim jacket and hotpants, jerked him out of his euphoria. She was sitting in a chair by his desk, dimpled, false tanned long legs crossed. The clothes said seductive. The body language said, 'Shut up and take me seriously.'

'You're George's neighbour, right?' van den Bergen asked. 'Want a coffee?'

Katja stuck out her hand, which he duly shook. Businesslike. Manly, in fact, despite the flashing pink nail extensions and hand-cream soft skin.

'I've not come here for a hot drink, darling,' she said.

He studied her face. Under scrutiny, she was late thirties. Polish or Latvian maybe. A ballbreaker with Botox.

'What can I do for you then, Miss ...?'

'Just Katja. Look, I've had a punter. I didn't like him.'

'Would you like to report an a.s.sault?'

'I can handle myself good, believe me. No, the thing that gave me the creeps was that he was asking about the people in the house. Before we'd even agreed a price, he asked about Jan. Okay, no big deal. Jan runs the coffee shop, so the public see him all day long. Then Inneke. Well, maybe he's interested in visiting her some time. That's fine. But then he starts asking about George. Wanted to know where she was. Really grilling me, you know?'

Katja locked eyes with van den Bergen. Van den Bergen shook his head slowly and groaned aloud as he wiped his face in his shovel-like hands. 'Did you tell him where?'

Katja chewed on her bottom lip and looked at her stiletto shoes.

'I'm so sorry. I just didn't think. But I remembered you guys had been dusting her place for prints, and h.e.l.l, there's a killer on the loose.'

'What did this man look like?' Van den Bergen asked, wondering, just wondering if his hunch would be ghoulishly correct.

Chapter 29.

28 January

'Well?' van den Bergen asked.

Elvis approached, looking uncharacteristically grim faced, although that could have been down to fatigue and unflattering strip lighting, under which even Marianne de Koninck looked rough.

'Sorry, boss. No address for Saddiq. Only a PO box contact on the university's books and the bank account he uses for salary payment. And another thing. Adria.n.u.s Karelse's mother has reported him missing.'

'But there's a patrol car outside his d.a.m.n house!' van den Bergen bellowed.

Elvis shrugged.

Van den Bergen thumped his desk. Was he doomed to keep hitting dead ends? George wasn't answering her phone and the killer had actively sought out her whereabouts. Karelse was gone. For Christ's sake! He looked at the clock as the seconds ticked by ominously, feeling that time was something he didn't have enough of.

Drained and dizzy, now. Silently, he prayed that George was still safe.

'How do you fancy heading up the team for a bit?' he asked Elvis.

'What do you mean, boss?'

'I'll be back by dinner time at the latest.'

George woke stiff and dry-mouthed on her friend Caroline's sofa. Only the need for a cigarette and a feeling of general unease had driven her out of King's Cellars, where they had danced until the early hours. Now, she got up and wandered into the unfamiliar kitchenette. Nauseated by the smell of stale kebab wrappings, she washed her hands with boiling hot water and a pan scourer full of washing-up liquid. She hastily opened the kitchen window to allow fresh air in.

Outside was an empty courtyard. George stared blankly at the drab scene until she heard Caroline's phone buzz in the adjacent bedroom. Then, she remembered she'd had three missed calls from van den Bergen. Her phone had died on her before just as she was poised to call him back.

'Got to get my charger, man. What does that old b.u.g.g.e.r want?'

Leaving a note on her sleeping friend's desk by the window, she put on her shoes, gathered her coat and hastened down paths, thick with early morning frost, to her guest room in the 1960s boxy annex, Cripps.

Her walk took her over the Bridge of Sighs. She allowed herself a moment to take in the crisp, heavenly view of willows, horse chestnuts and beeches that would soon be in leaf along the backs of the River Cam. The earliest cherries had already started to bloom, oblivious to and showing no signs of intimidation by the chill Siberian winds that blow through that flat land unhindered.

At 6am, there was n.o.body around but the odd porter, a member of college domestic staff wheeling a trolley or small gaggles of early rising rowers, making their way to the boat house. But she still felt uneasy. She felt eyes on her.

When the plane landed at Stansted, van den Bergen hastily unbuckled and switched on his phone. He was immediately greeted by a text from Elvis, saying Kamphuis was going to book him a one-way ticket to a euthanasia clinic when he returned. There was still no sign of Karelse.

Was it possible that Karelse was still alive? The whole of van den Bergen's department was searching desperately for him. Van den Bergen berated himself silently for thinking that while the killer was occupied with him, at least there was a strong possibility that George would still be safe.

George was careful to wedge a chair under the door handle once she had shut the door. The room that Sally had allocated to her was kitted out in utilitarian non-style; intended to double both as student accommodation and as a room for conference guests. It was clean. She was also pleased to note that it had a tiny en suite shower room as well as tea and coffee making facilities. George immediately gobbled down the two complimentary shortbread biscuits as a makeshift breakfast. The coffee sachet spilled everywhere as she emptied it into the cup.

It felt good to strip off her stale clothes and laddered tights. She took her charger out of her weekend bag and plugged in her phone. Immediately, there were two pings, showing she had new phone messages or texts in addition to the missed calls from van den Bergen. She booted up her laptop and put the kettle on. Phone, then shower, then email.

The first text was from van den Bergen. Cryptic as ever, all it said was: Call me a.s.a.p.

The second text was from Ad. George smiled as she opened it.

I love you. I'm finally coming to get you.

She grinned at the message. 'He loves me,' she said to her reflection in the en suite mirror. Her lips stretched wide over her teeth. She almost felt happy enough to weep. But then she realised there was something about the wording that seemed at odds with Ad's usual style. He was not one for gushing confessions. He was a careful man. Though she didn't doubt he was privately pa.s.sionate, he chose his words with thought and spoke about his emotions sparingly. The proclamation of love via text did not ring true, neither did use of the word 'finally'.

'Oh stop being so cynical!' she told her reflection. Then she allowed herself another grin. 'He must have jacked in the Milkmaid. He must be coming to England!' She clapped her hands.

When she tried to call Ad, his phone went straight to voicemail. Maybe he was flying. Yes, that was it. He would call when he landed.

The kettle clicked. She poured boiling water into her coffee cup, being careful not to spill any on her naked body. She was flushed warm with happiness. She started to sing about how, like Aretha Franklin, Ad made her feel like a natural woman.

Though his reflection in the chrome of the kettle was clear, she was too distracted by thoughts of Ad to notice the disfigured man, standing perfectly still by the curtain.

'St John's College, please,' van den Bergen told a cab driver at Cambridge station.

He had been travelling for four hours. It was just past 8am. George was still not answering his calls.

The cab driver dropped him in a narrow side street.

'That's St John's through there, mate,' he said, pointing to a grand stone building behind high railings. 'You wanna go to Porters' Lodge on the right, see? Big medieval-looking place with a wooden door.'

Van den Bergen struggled to understand the man's accent but nodded. Who the h.e.l.l knew what a Porters' Lodge was?

He ran to the college entrance as the cab driver had indicated, narrowly missing being mown down by several students on bicycles.

'I am looking for Georgina McKenzie,' he told the balding, middle-aged man behind the polished wood counter.

He showed his police identification card. The man took the card and fished around in the top pocket of his black suit jacket for a pair of spectacles.

'Let's see who we've got here,' he said, eyeing van den Bergen and then studying the ID card with almost melodramatic disinterest.

Van den Bergen drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter. 'This is a matter of great urgency, connected to a criminal case in the Netherlands.' Why would this pot-bellied idiot not just let him through?

'Here, Alf. Look at this,' the man said to another, older, balding man who wore a sweater beneath his black jacket. 'What do you think of this then? Dutch police. Wants to speak to an undergrad who's visiting Dr Wright.'

The first man seemed to defer to Alf. Pretty soon, not one, but three identically dressed men were studying van den Bergen's ident.i.ty card. Van den Bergen realised that these were porters. He was surprised that they seemed to have the elevated status of official gatekeepers, rather than being men who simply carry heavy luggage around, like train station porters.

'Fancy that, eh?' the third porter said.

Alf took the card from the first porter and gave it back to van den Bergen. 'Leave a note,' he said, pointing to row upon row of pigeonholes behind him. 'She'll get it later.' Alf's teeth were tea-stained. He looked the sort of old-fashioned man who set a lot of store by knowing the extent of his own authority and obeying orders only from his superior.

Van den Bergen felt his eye start to tic. He wanted to grab Alf and his suited collaborators by the scruffs of their necks and see if they felt more co-operative with their jowly faces ground into the counter. Instead, he took a deep breath and smoothed down his raincoat.

'This is a police matter. It's urgent that I speak to Ms McKenzie. She may be in grave danger.' He gave the men his sternest look that he normally reserved for instilling the fear of G.o.d into low-life perpetrators.

The first porter he had spoken to turned his back on van den Bergen, picked up a ledger and started to leaf through its pages. He said nothing. The third proceeded to ignore him as soon as a man with wild grey eyebrows, clutching a battered leather briefcase, entered the Lodge. The porter addressed this man deferentially as Doctor Somethingorother and talked about a Fellows' Drawing Room, so van den Bergen a.s.sumed this was an academic affiliated to the college. Perhaps a little light manipulation was his only way of gaining entry to this seemingly closed world.

'Excuse me,' van den Bergen said to the academic. 'I am a friend of Dr Sally Wright. I need to speak urgently with an exchange student who is a guest of hers at the moment, but these fine gentlemen won't let me into the college.'

The academic looked suspiciously up at van den Bergen through tortoisesh.e.l.l-rimmed designer gla.s.ses. He smoothed one of the leather elbow patches on his tweed jacket defensively.

'A friend of the senior tutor? What kind of friend?'

Van den Bergen brandished his ID card for the second time. 'An inspector of the Dutch police kind of friend. I'm hunting a serial killer who might be on your premises.'

The academic studied the identification and seemed to blanch. 'Amsterdam?'

Van den Bergen nodded.

'I've read about a serial killer there. The same one as in the papers?'

Van den Bergen nodded stoically, wanting to push the man aside and barge through unhindered to whatever lay beyond. He felt like he was dealing with suspicious, stalling pensioners from Breda.

The academic's eyebrows bunched together. He turned to Alf. 'Call the police, Alf,' he said.

'Are you going to let me through?' van den Bergen asked.

Alf leaned forward, supporting his upper body on the counter with folded arms, as though protecting his turf. 'This is St John's College, sir. We've got hundreds of students and Fellows living behind this Lodge. You could be anybody. We get all sorts of crackpots trying to get inside but you're not British police and you're not a member of college. Sightseeing's restricted to just a couple of courtyards. You're too early for that an' all.'

Van den Bergen had never come across such obstinacy before. He felt tightness across his chest as though somebody had strapped him up with elastic baggage ties.

'Do you want to be responsible for the death of a student and the escape of an internationally wanted criminal?' he asked the self-satisfied-looking porter.

'Look, this chap seems to be genuine,' the academic suddenly said. 'Kindly accompany him to the student's guest room. But do call the police in the meantime. We can't have mad men wandering round, threatening our students, can we, Inspector?'

Begrudgingly, Alf shoved a guest book under van den Bergen's nose.

'Sign in,' he said, tapping his finger on an empty line.

Then he nodded to van den Bergen and, jangling an enormous set of keys, indicated that he should follow.

George hopped into the shower, which was deliciously hot and refreshing, despite the hard water which refused to foam up no matter how much soap she used. Steam billowed all around her, obscuring the mirror. She dried off with the fluffy, oversized towel, leaned over the sink to brush her teeth and failed to see the disfigured man as he stood behind her not three feet away. When she wiped the mirror with her hand, there was nothing but her own reflection staring back at her.

'Oh, my days. You look like a wreck, girl. You need some early nights and a new liver.'

She was careful to apply plenty of moisturiser and deodorant, in case Ad came to find her. She wanted to be fresh and fragrant for the big seduction. She felt hot antic.i.p.ation between her legs and had to take a deep breath to calm herself down.

'Emails. Focus.'

She sat on the bed and checked her Hotmail account. Unusually there was an email from van den Bergen.

'Jesus. He's persistent. What does he want?'

From: Paul van den Bergen02.10 To: Subject: Karelse has disappeared Karelse is missing. Brandon Khler is Jeremy Saddiq. Have tracked him to university. He has been sniffing around your neighbour, Katja, asking about you. Be extra vigilant.

Paul George frowned at the screen. Van den Bergen had still been trying to get in touch with her at two in the morning.

He must be agitated. Ad's missing.

'Well, of course he's missing!' she proclaimed after some thought. 'He's on the road, coming to see me, me, little me.' It did occur to George at that moment that, although she was likely to flout a police curfew, Ad was not. She opted to ignore the nagging little doubt.

George was just about to call van den Bergen when she altered the angle of her laptop screen to deflect the early morning sunlight. What was this smudge on her screen? She tried to wipe it away. When the pale shape remained, her senses sharpened, and then she realised. She was staring at a reflection of a scarred face. Everything seemed to stop. Breath. Sound. Light. The world froze; a split-second calm prelude to that horrifying moment.

'h.e.l.lo, Ella,' Jez said.

They set off at a snail's pace through a warren of courtyards and medieval gateways, each one revealing something more beautiful, antiquated and foreign to van den Bergen.